


A Moveable Feast

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-26
Updated: 2008-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: Five Winchester Thanksgivings.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	A Moveable Feast

1982

Mary can carve a turkey--she's still a whiz with a knife--but for some reason, she can't seem to actually _cook_ one.

Three hours in the oven and the goddamn bird is still mostly raw; John is laughing at her, and she's ready to give up.

"Come on," he says. "We've got stuffing and mashed potatoes and sweet potato pie--"

"Pie!" Dean says, his eyes wide as he takes in the feast already laid out on the table. "With marshmallows."

"We don't need a turkey," John continues. He wraps an arm around her waist, his hand splaying down over her belly, though she won't start to show for another few weeks, and presses a kiss to the side of her neck. "Come on."

They sit down at the table, Dean slowly inching forward so he can grab the big paper turkey centerpiece as John says grace. When John's done he says, "What are you thankful for today, Dean?"

"Mommy and Daddy." Dean grins wide and mischievous, and says, "And pie."

"That's my boy." John grins back, and Mary feels her heart swell with love for her boys.

Even without the turkey, they stuff themselves, and then settle onto the couch to watch the end of the football game. Mary shares a slice of pie with Dean, who ends up with whipped cream and apple filling smeared all over his face.

"Pie is the best thing ever," he announces.

"Yeah," she says, stealing another bite. She waits until he's finished chewing and swallowing, and then she hugs him until he shrieks with laughter.

She's not going to sweat it. She'll figure out the turkey next year.

*

1990

It's late when John gets back to the motel, his back aching from a day spent under the hood and an evening spent hunched over books. The weather's turned, too, weird unseasonable warmth giving way to chilly wind and rain, early warning that winter's coming and it's going to be fierce.

Dean's half-asleep with Letterman on low, blue light from the television making him look older and paler than eleven (almost twelve, Dad).

"You're up late," he says mildly, observing, not accusing.

Dean straightens, startled. "No school tomorrow," he says, his glance flicking to something on the coffee table and then back to meet John's. "Friday neither."

John settles on the couch next to him, reaches forward to pick up whatever it is on the table that's causing Dean to eye him warily. It's a paper turkey, cut in the outline of Sammy's hand and crowned with a black construction paper pilgrim hat. "Shit. Tomorrow already?"

Dean nods. "I, uh, I got a pie," he says. "Apple. And some Cool Whip. But--"

"Good man." John throws an arm around Dean's shoulders and squeezes. Dean's getting to the age where he scorns hugs, and most of the time, John's not one to give them, but he still likes surprising the boy occasionally. He breathes in the scent of sweat and sleep and Ivory soap and remembers Mary. "I'll take care of the turkey in the morning." He takes a deep breath. "Your mother never could make turkey worth a damn," he says around the ache in his chest, "but she made awesome sweet potatoes."

"With marshmallows," Dean says thickly.

John is surprised he remembers.

They don't talk much about Mary, and maybe that's a mistake, but it still hurts too much. "Yeah," he says finally, his voice whiskey rough and tired, though he's stone cold sober this year. "Come on, Dean. Let's get you to bed."

Dean doesn't fuss, brushes his teeth and washes his face and then climbs into bed behind Sammy, who wakes at the disturbance. He's always been a fitful sleeper.

"Hey, kiddo," John says, brushing Sam's hair back off his forehead. It's too long again; he'll have to see about hair cuts soon.

"Hey, Daddy. Did you see what I made for Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, I did, Sammy. Good job."

"Thanks," Sammy answers, smiling drowsily, and then he's off to sleep again with a soft sigh.

"Thanks, Dad," Dean says. John's not sure why, but he squeezes Dean's shoulder in response.

John doesn't have much to be thankful for, but he still has his boys, a paper turkey, and a store-bought apple pie.

*

2004

"Are you sure, Mrs. Moore? Please let me help," Sam says, trying to avoid awkward small talk with Jess's sisters.

"Such a nice boy," she says, patting his cheek. "And so tall! But no, dear, we've got everything under control. Please go sit down and have a beer."

Sam smiles at her and heads into the living room where Katie and Cristina are lying in wait.

"Pre-law, huh?" Cristina says when he sits down. Her smile reminds Sam of a shark, all sharp edges and white teeth.

He shifts uncomfortably and takes a sip of beer, the bottle cool and slick against his palms. "Yeah."

"Good, good." She takes a sip of her own beer and then sets it down neatly on a coaster. "Listen, Sam, it's probably easier if we just get this out of the way right at the beginning."

"Jess is our little sister," Katie says, picking right up where Cristina left off. Sam wonders if they rehearsed, or if they've just given the same speech often enough to have it down to a science, like when he and Dean used to hustle pool. "And it looks like you're making her happy."

"But you should know that if you hurt her, we'll kill you." There's that shark smile again--it's oddly familiar, for all that Sam's never met her before. He doesn't think Jess smiles that like that at all.

He nods. "I won't," he says. "I promise." It's not that he's scared of them--he's faced scarier things without breaking a sweat--but he's scared of hurting Jess, more than anything, and he lets some of that fear show through, so they'll believe him.

"Okay, then. I'm glad we understand each other."

"Welcome to the family," Katie adds, raising her bottle of beer and clinking it against his. "Whatever you do, do _not_ eat the green bean casserole."

"And if Aunt Millie's had more than one glass of wine, be careful. She has wandering hands."

"Don't worry, Sam," Jess says, laughing as she slips into his lap. She raises his beer to her lips and takes a long drink. "I'll protect you from scary Aunt Millie."

The extended family starts arriving after that, and soon they're all sitting around the beautifully set table, and one of the younger cousins is asking everyone to say what they're thankful for.

When it's his turn, he wipes his sweaty palms on his khakis and says, "Jess, of course." She leans over and kisses him, and everybody laughs. But he finds himself missing Dad and Dean more than he has in a long time, with a fierce ache in his chest that makes it hard to eat.

"Are you okay?" Jess whispers under the cover of everyone else's laughter.

"I--I'm gonna go get some air, okay?" he says.

She squeezes his leg and nods. "Whatever you need, Sam."

He slips out into the cool November evening and takes his phone out of his pocket. He's gripping it so hard he's surprised the plastic casing hasn't cracked, and he runs his thumb over the buttons, knowing if he thinks about it too long, he won't do it.

He presses number one on speed dial and prays Dean's number hasn't changed since the last time they spoke.

The phone rings twice and then he hears Dean's voice for the first time in almost a year. "This is Dean. Leave a message."

Sam takes a shuddering breath, and then another, all the words he wants to say stuck somewhere in his throat with the stuffing and turkey.

Finally, he says, "Happy Thanksgiving, Dean," in a voice that doesn't break.

He slips back into his seat and Jess takes his hand for a quick moment, understanding in her eyes.

*

2007

November is a bad month for the Winchesters, full of too many unhappy anniversaries, and this year, there's a whole new one to dread in May, so Dean doesn't really blame himself for missing that it's Thanksgiving until he goes out to scrounge up dinner and finds nearly the whole town shut down.

There's a sad-looking all night diner next to the motel he'd been hoping to avoid, but it looks like the only game in town. He ignores the special turkey and mashed potato plate, orders two burgers instead.

He's figuring out how much money they have left and how close they are to the nearest PO Box (and the nearest clean credit cards) when he catches sight of the lone pie sitting in the revolving dessert case.

"Hey," he says to the guy behind the counter. "Is that apple?"

"Pumpkin," the guy says.

"I'll take it. You got any ice cream?"

The guy shrugs. "Vanilla."

"Good enough."

Dean slaps the money down on the counter and takes the food.

Sam's sitting at the desk with the laptop open when he gets back to the room.

"Come and get it," Dean says, thumping the bags down on the table and stripping off his jacket. He slings it over the chair and pulls the two Styrofoam containers with their food out of the bag, along with a shitload of napkins and some plastic cutlery.

They eat in silence. Sam is engrossed in something on the computer, his face all scrunched up in concentration, like he's a million miles away. Dean wants to tease him about his porn habit, but since he has a feeling he knows exactly what Sam's doing (what Sam's been doing for the past six months), he doesn't.

Well, for a good fifteen minutes, anyway.

When he's done with his burger and fries (and half of Sam's, since Sam isn't paying attention), he says, "Happy Thanksgiving, Sam," and pulls out the pie and the ice cream.

Sam just stares at him for a long moment. Then his brows draw in and his mouth goes tight. "Because we have _so much_ to be thankful for this year, Dean."

"Don't even fucking start with that, Sammy. You're alive. I'm here. What more can we ask for?"

"What more--" Sam sputters, standing up and flinging his arms out angrily, almost knocking over his chair. "Don't _you_ even fucking start, Dean."

"Do you really wanna do this now? Come on, Sam, I've got pie--admittedly, it's pumpkin instead of apple, but still, _pie_. And ice cream. Your favorite." He smiles, trying to ignore the sick twist in his gut as Sam pulls on his jacket and leaves, door slamming hollowly behind him.

"Fucking Thanksgiving," Dean mutters, sweeping the garbage from dinner into the plastic bag and leaving the pie on the table, a silent reproach.

He turns on the television and ends up watching _A Miracle on 34th Streert_. He figures it's penance enough.

Sam comes back just as the US Postal Service is acknowledging the existence of Santa Claus by delivering all of his mail to the courtroom. His eyes and nose are red, and Dean is pretty sure it's not just from the cold.

"Hey," Dean says. "I made some coffee. It should still be hot."

"Thanks," Sam answers, his voice rough. "Some pie would be good."

Dean smiles. "Okay, Sammy. Let's have some pie."

The ice cream's melted into soup, so Dean pours it into their coffee--that's as close to the fancy coffees Sam likes as they're going to get right now--and together they polish off the pie.

Maybe it's not the best Thanksgiving they've ever had (not that Dean remembers celebrating many), but if it's his last, it'll do.

*

2008

"Come on, Dean. Let's go." Sam grabs the keys out of Dean's hand before Dean can protest.

"What's the rush, Sammy? Got a hot date with your demon chick?"

Sam scowls at him. "We've got a few hours driving ahead of us if we want to get there in time."

"Get _where_ in time?"

"I kind of told Ellen we'd be coming for Thanksgiving." He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. He'd been hoping to get on the road without having to explain, because he's not sure how Dean's going to react.

Dean stares at him like he's lost his mind. "You what?"

"She's settled in her new place. She said Jo'll be there, maybe Bobby, too."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Sam--"

"There'll be pie, Dean. I made her promise."

"Apple pie?"

"Apple pie, and stuffing and, shit, I don't know, whatever else people eat on Thanksgiving. That disgusting green bean casserole with the dried onions on top."

"Okay." Dean holds his hand out. "But I'm driving."

Sam sighs and resigns himself to the passenger seat.

Dean gets them to Ellen's in time for dinner, during halftime of the early football game.

Bobby's there, slouched on a blue and green plaid couch, beer in hand. "Boys," he says, raising his can in salute.

Sam and Dean both smile. "Hey, Bobby."

Ellen is in the kitchen, cursing up a storm at the turkey, and Sam joins her, enjoying the warmth of the stove and the delicious smells wafting from it.

"You need help?"

She points the turkey baster at a bunch of jars and cans. "You can open those up for me, and pour them all into those little bowls, then put them on the table." There are pickles and olives, artichoke hearts and roasted peppers. "Then you can take care of the cheese plate." She waves at a slab of cheddar and a box of crackers, waiting to be put out on a plate.

Sam sits down and concentrates on the job he's been given, basking in the warmth and surreal familiarity of it all--Ellen and Dean and Bobby bantering back and forth and then Dean yelling at the television when Green Bay does something he doesn't like.

"This is quite a spread you've got here," Dean says, coming into the kitchen to get another beer. "I don't suppose you've got, uh, the sweet potatoes with the marshmallows on top, huh?"

Sam looks up from the cutting board to see Dean looking awkward, gaze trained on the can of beer in his hand and tips of his ears turning pink.

Ellen smiles. "Course we do, hon. It's one of Jo's favorites. She should be here soon. Got stuck in traffic just outside of Chattanooga, so she's running late."

"I didn't know you liked that," Sam says, though he doesn't know why he's surprised. He can only think of about three things Dean won't eat.

Dean shrugs a shoulder. "Mom--I think Mom used to make it. I remember--" He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's stupid."

Sam smiles and bumps his shoulder. "No, it's not."

Jo arrives in a rush of cold air and sweet-smelling perfume, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, and then it's time to sit down at the table.

"I think we should all say what we're grateful for," Sam says when it looks like everybody's just going to dig in without taking a moment to say grace. They all look at him like he's grown a second head. "No, seriously. I mean it."

"I think we're all grateful for the same thing this year," Ellen says, looking at Dean.

Dean looks down at his plate and scrubs a hand over his mouth, light blush rising under his freckles at being the center of attention. Then he hides the embarrassment away and grins. "I'm thankful for pie," he says. Sam thwaps him on the shoulder, and everybody laughs. They all raise their glasses in a toast, then, and Dean says, "Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Now let's eat."

And despite his current hard feelings towards God (or a couple of his angels, anyway), Sam sends up his own silent prayer of thanks, and then steals the drumstick off Dean's plate.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DevilDoll and Laura for looking it over. Inspired by cereta's post about Thanksgiving.


End file.
